


life spins madly on

by archeryian



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, but the love they have for each other will always be there, she's moved on, written bc of andrew scott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 06:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21132410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeryian/pseuds/archeryian
Summary: Of course they run into each at the market. She knows it's a bit unexpected, but what she definitely doesn't expect is for him to get so upset over the ring on her finger.(A love that isn’t forever isn’t necessarily one not worth telling.)





	life spins madly on

**Author's Note:**

> Um I pictured Fleabag’s fiancé as Kit Harington? 
> 
> Oh and this was written in an hour after yet another Fleabag binge so forgive any errors

When she meets her future husband, it's a year and a half after the affair with her priest. She’s avoided Catholic churches like the plague, dated around a bit, and gotten her life together again. She’s pretty pleased with herself. She's comfortable and happy and lively (and not looking for another person to join it.)

But a man comes into her cafe one day and she can’t stop staring. He has black hair like _him_, but it’s the only thing they share. This man’s hair is curly, he has a nice trimmed beard, and a mouth in a fixed frown. He is unfairly attractive. (She tries not to picture the lovely beard burn he’d leave on her thighs)

She takes his order and when she brings him his drink and sandwich, he asks her about guinea pigs and she asks him about the mountain of papers front of him (he’s not a priest, he’s not married, he’s a journalist. A _score._) and they chat. For hours. When he leaves with a soft smile sent her way, she’s sad that that’s the end of it. He left no number, no last name, and she tries not to care.

But then he comes back the next day, and the day after, and then the day after that. Before long she doesn’t think of her favorite priest every time he laughs at one of her jokes or sees through her the way _he_ once had. She thinks only of the man in front of her and the long forgotten feeling growing in her chest. (_God_, she had become an optimist.)

He is so different from all the men she’s dated. He’s so different from _him_.

Her priest had been smiles and the embodiment of optimistic energy necessary for a man of God, but this man, this man is serious with a dryness that surprises laughter out of her. He says things with a sarcasm that makes her feel like their kindred spirits. He gives her his full attention, takes what she offers, never forces her to give more of herself than she's willing (and somehow that just makes her want to give him more.) Her heart never feels like its in danger with him, he makes it feel safe. With time, it makes her fall in love.

So when he asks her to marry him about a year after the day he had first walked into her cafe, she says yes.

_It’ll pass. _And it had. Though thoughts of the priest were far and few in her mind, when they did pop up they didn't hurt as much anymore.

When she is in the midst of planning her very, very small wedding (she refuses to have anything big and snobbish) Godmother asked her if she wanted her to call _him._ Her head is shaking back and forth before the sentence is finished.

“Oh, dear, I know you’re not Catholic, we weren't either, but he was such a lovely man and I’d love to see his little collar again—”

“Nope! Thanks, but Claire’s going to marry us.”

And that’s the end of it, she assumes. 

So of fucking course she runs into him.

She's in the middle of the market and she has two different cartons of juices in her hands. Debating cranberry or strawberry and banana is quite the task and she’s practically glaring at them.

Someone bumps into her and she looks up to says sorry, even though it seriously wasn't her fault and—

“Oh.”

The priest (_her_ priest) is there, right in front of her. (Well shit.)

She stares at him and he stares back. “Hi,” She says, smiling. It doesn't feel forced and that is a victory.

“Hello,” He shakes his head as if to ward off whatever was making him gawk at her. “Wow. Hi. How are you? How’s the cafe? How’s Hilary?”

She puts both juices back into the fridges and laughs. “Good, good, and very good,” Ending it with grin. He’s still staring though. “And you? How’s God?”

“Great. You know, still a bit silent, but always there.”

“And Pam? Is she still staying with you?”

“Ah, no actually. She moved in with her son to spend more time with her grandkids, so it’s just me now.” He’s still staring at her and she tucks her hair behind her ear a bit self-consciously.

His eyes lock onto her hand and don't leave it. She knows exactly what he’s staring at but he seems determined to make her lead the conversation.

“Surprise.” And with a lift of her hand, he’s smiling and nodding again, albeit a bit jerkily.

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah.” This man chose God over her and she had respected it. She has no reason to feel sad or guilty. They'd had one night together (one glorious night of him moving inside her with such intensity—)

“Who's the lucky guy?”

Her throat is dry but she manages,“He—he is…he’s someone I love.” She finally decides on. The only indication of any feeling is the brief clench in his jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple. “We met at the cafe. He makes me happy.”

“Right, well congratulations!” His jovial attitude feels fake to both of them but she doesn't say anything about it.

“Thank you,” It sounds hesitant, even to her. What had he expected? For her to mourn him for the rest of her life?

His smile doesn’t leave his face. “Of course, right. Right. I’ve got to go,” He says, pointing behind him. “It was nice seeing you.”

“You too?” She says to his back because he's already walking out of the store without whatever he’d come in for. For a moment, she stands there.

(She won’t go after him.)

She glances down at the things in her basket (damn it) and leaves it as she rushes out of the store.

“Wait!”

He’s not far and he turns when she calls him.

“I—”

“I’m sorry,” He rushes out, before she can say the same. “I was being an absolute ass. I am happy for you. So happy.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I—I’m a selfish prick who never imagined you getting married,” He admits running a hand through his hair. “I wanted you happy but seeing you…seeing you with a ring is a lot.”

“In your defense, I never thought it’d happen either.”

He barely smiles though. “I don’t regret my decision. I don’t,” He looks at her with the same unwavering warmth and shrewdness he had almost three years ago. “I just wasn't expecting this. Seeing you. With that.” He nods to her hand and she smiles a bit. “I...you were the only woman I've ever loved.”

Well, if they're going to be brutally honest on the sidewalk outside a Tesco. “You told me that it would pass.”

“Yeah.”

“It did, but I think a ridiculous part of me will always love you.” She admits, making sure her eyes don't leave his. “You were important to me.”

He walks toward her and the ring on finger burns, because she loves her fiancé but this. This was the love that had fucking _hurt_.

“A part of me will always love you too. Sometimes I wonder if—” He shakes his head again and finally smiles. “But I’m doing the job that I love, the only thing I ever could do. And you found someone who chose _you_. This is what was meant to happen.”

She still doesn’t believe in God, or fate, but she does believe in what she'd felt for him. And even if it was over now, she's grateful for him. Her time with him had been important so re-confessing their love in the middle of the street wasn't that weird. They'd done weirder. This felt...normal. Also like the smallest amount of more closure that she hadn't known she needed. 

She reaches forward and hugs him (he smells the same) and he hugs back just as tightly. 

"Do you think we would've lasted?" She asks into his shoulder, so no one but him could possibly hear.

She feels him scoff. "Probably not. We would've had amazing sex, but grown to hate each other with our stellar communication skills. I would've become an alcoholic and you'd have divorced me and taken everything."

She pulls back with a small laugh. They stand there a moment, with the bustle of people and London traffic around them. She adjusts her bag on shoulder and nudges him. “So would you like an invite to the wedding then?”

“Oh, fuck off.” But he seems genuine when he adds, “I am happy for you.”

“Thanks. I’m happy for you too.” It feels like a weird dream, seeing him, talking to him after so long. His fading figure walking away from the bus station had been imprinted in her memory since that night. She's glad that, if this is the last time she sees him, that's the tang of bitterness isn't in her mouth. Then her phone’s vibrating and it reminds her that she’s expected back home soon. She takes a deep breathe and tells him, “I’ve better go back in and get some stuff for dinner.”

“Yeah, of course. I'll see you?" Then he shakes his head like it's a joke and suddenly it's night time and she's in a red dress sitting on a bench and he's telling her—"Goodbye.”

"Goodbye," She says, meaning it. With a final look at him, clerical collar and eyes that saw way too much, she's the one to leave him this time. 

It’s not with tears in her eyes (okay, maybe a little), but with a smile.

She answers her phone once she’s back inside the fluorescent lights and aisles of food. “Hey.”

“_Hey darling, you alright?_”

“Yeah, just ran into an old friend at the market.” She grabs her basket, still where she’d left it and heads to the counter. She feels giddy, almost proud. “I’ll be home soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love reading stories where Fleabag and the Priest end up together but I also think it's okay if they don't. In an interview, Andrew Scott said, “There’s this idea that the only love that is pure and worthy of representation is a love that is forever, a happy-ever-after story. But I think for so many of us there are people that come into our lives that are incredibly potent, and sometimes people who are in our lives for six months can have as much of an influence as somebody who we would spend 15 years [with].”
> 
> Their story was real and beautiful, but like Andrew says, stories about love that doesn't last forever are just as important. If anything, I think it's more true to how life really is. Fleabag finding someone else doesn’t mean she loved him any less. It means that she’s able to fall in love with someone who can love her back without the guilt of God on their shoulders.


End file.
